


who i was, made who i am

by acerbicsarcasm



Series: learning, after the fact [3]
Category: The Penumbra Podcast
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Car chases and deep conversations, Fluff, Juno has a terrible taste in alcohol, Other, POV Juno Steel, Post S2, Reunion Fic, be gay do crimes in SPACE
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-06
Updated: 2019-03-06
Packaged: 2019-11-12 07:05:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18006161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/acerbicsarcasm/pseuds/acerbicsarcasm
Summary: The best part of the con is the escape, and Juno and Nureyev use their time to sort through whatever they have between them. If there is anything there at all.





	1. the verdict is up to you

**Author's Note:**

> Titles for all chapters of this fic are from "Lighting Fires" by The Gospel Youth.
> 
> The is the last part in the "learning, after the fact" series! This will probs make a lot more sense if you start with Pt1, "show me how to lie", since all parts follow a chronological storyline.

“Do you have any food?”

“Not unless you took some on our way out from Vulcan, detective.”

“I was unconscious!”

The silence sits for a fragile instant, and Juno dives back into it. “Aren’t _you_ the one who steals things?”

“I was busy hauling you to the car. No, Juno, we don’t have any food.”

These are the first words that have been spoken in an hour. The Hermes dome is still wrapped in artificial twilight, and Juno feels that instinctual part of his brain try and pull him back to slumber. He knows there’s no reason to give in, since he’s spent the last couple of hours out cold, but the petty part of him wants to, just to escape Nureyev’s silence for a little longer.

That was, of course, before the hunger pains.

Now Juno settles back into his seat, arms crossed with a dark _humph._ There’s not so much as a twinge in his ribs. Hopefully they’ve healed all the way up.

Casting a sidelong glance at Nureyev, Juno realises how different he looks without his glasses. How soft his face actually is, the precise shade of his eyes when they aren’t obscured by the flash on a lens.

His stomach rumbles again and he decides he’s done looking and returns to being pissed-off.

A few more minutes pass. They’re avoiding each other’s gazes.

“Do we have —”

“Unlikely, detective.”

 

__________

 

Juno doesn’t know when he drifted off, but he jerks back awake with that falling feeling swooping through his gut, gasping hard. His hands tremble.

“Good for you to join us, detective!” Nureyev says, curt and short.

“What the —”

They careen around a corner and Juno swears, realising he’s not wearing the safety belt as his shoulder is slammed into the door. He feels it on the other side — the _wrong_ side — and vertigo slashes through him. He’s nauseous.

“We picked up another tail,” says Nureyev, and he slams the steering wheel to the other side. Juno grips his seat with pale knuckles, and he can see the gleam of hovering streetlights reflecting off the sharpened points of Nureyev’s teeth. The thief lets out a laugh and Juno feels his stomach sink further. "This one doesn't have federal plates, so we should be able to lose them if they don't play dirty."

“A car chase,” he mutters. “Fantastic. You know, this morning, this is exactly what I wanted. I thought, wow, wouldn’t it be great if we ended up in a high-speed police chase tonight? This is really the stuff of my dreams, Nureyev, you really know how to show a lady a good time!”

The van screams around a corner and Juno swears again.

“You were after a high-speed chase?” laughs Nureyev and Juno’s unfeeling fingers scramble to try and buckle his seatbelt with fumbling, thick movements. “Goodness, Juno, you should have told me!”

“Don’t go out of your way —”

The van lurches forward, doubling speed through empty city streets, the earliest of early-morning commuters honking at them as Nureyev weaves through the steel jungle of towering highscrapers and ramps.

Nureyev’s laughter, carefree and wild, warms Juno’s bones as much as it makes him want to puke out the window. At this speed, the result would be … disgusting.

Juno feels the sweat beating along the edge of his makeshift eyepatch as he holds tight, giving up on the seatbelt. He braces himself as best he can and glances behind them, seeing the flashing lights. They’re further back now, legally or mechanically unable to match the van's speed. Juno realises what he’s doing — by not changing street levels, Nureyev has restricted the direction of attack to above and behind them. He’s also chosen the tightest alleys.

Peter Nureyev can drive, and he does it with the same reckless grace he does everything. Juno watches with slack-jawed fascination and a death grip on the dashboard as they slip through alleys, screech around corners, abuse every inch of the street and sidewalk with a careless precision that makes his head spin.

“How do you feel about jumping, Juno?” Nureyev shouts over the sirens.

“I — _what_?”

“Ensure your door is unlocked! In three blocks we’ll be out of sight for several seconds. I assume you know how to roll out of a car?”

“I damn well know, but it’s not usually my first option!”

“It’s your first and only option, Juno, so I suggest you get the refinery ready!”

Juno checks the door. It’s unlocked. That doesn’t make him feel better. He reaches behind his seat and feels the plastic encasing the refinery. How had he forgotten it? This was what all the fuss was about, after all. It feels flimsy and fake in his hands.

He watches Nureyev type directions into the automated driving system and his sense of unease grows. “Nureyev —”

“I’ll give you a countdown, Juno.” One hand on the wheel, Nureyev flashes a grin. Like a fox.

“I appreciate the consideration, Nureyev,” Juno shouts back, twisting wildly in his seat to watch the lagging sirens. “Why does every job with you end in a chase?”

Nureyev ignores him. Juno’s glad, because he doesn’t want to remember how this ended last time either. “Three,” the thief says instead, one hand on the wheel and another on the door handle, “two … one!”

The van slips around a corner and the light of the sirens disappears for an instant. Their howl is still ear-splitting.

Juno clenches his fist and feels the door pop open. He registers the blinding rush of air before anything else, and then the jolt through his nerves as he tosses himself out.

He hits the ground, but his eye is closed and he can’t feel anything properly. He rolls the best he can, body curled around the precious refinery, and slams to a halt when he collides with a wall. Shaking himself, Juno pulls himself upward. He makes it to his knees and every muscle in his body, overwhelmed at the conflicting signals shooting through his brain, gives out.

He shuts his eye again, clenching tight until the sick feeling passes.

A set of long, lanky limbs wrap around him. “Hold onto the refinery, Juno.”

He does, unsure which hand it’s in, but gripping both fists tight as Nureyev hauls him up, dragging him to a nearby doorway. It takes a well-placed shove with a shoulder and the lock pops open, and they collapse inside.

Juno lies as still as he can, staring up at the ceiling, acutely aware of the hushed rhythm of Nureyev’s breathing next to him, low to the ground. They hold themselves tense and immobile.

The sirens whirr past them, fading into the distance.

Nureyev lets out a breath. “Excellent. We’ve lost them.”

“Nureyev?”

“Yes, Juno?”

“I can’t walk.”

The admission burns his throat. He lies still and doesn’t move his gaze from the ceiling.

“How long do the sedative effects usually last?”

Juno swallows. “I don’t remember.”

“It’s been two hours since you woke. They could last up to two more.”

Even without looking, Juno knows Nureyev is doing the calculations. The refinery’s carry-handle is still clutched in one of his hands, he doesn’t know which, and it’s weight burns. He can feel the equation balancing; Juno helped obtain the refinery. Now the refinery is more important than him. Nureyev will take it back to the _Rover_ and maybe they’ll come back for Juno, when they have time.

He’s strangely alright with that. Police custody won’t be the death of him, after all.

“We can afford to stay here another half hour,” Nureyev says finally. “If the effects haven’t blown over by then I’ll have to leave and return with another car. If we wait any longer than that we’ll start to run into morning traffic.”

Juno nods. A half hour. That’s a good compromise, he reasons. He remembers the last time Nureyev left him, promising to come back. He wonders if Buddy and Jet would help rescue him, and figures they would. He hopes they would. He can picture them all; Rita and Jet, Buddy and Vespa, Peter Nureyev. They would come back for him, and something about the thought warms him.

There’s the odd sensation of Nureyev prying the refinery’s handle from his hands. Juno tries to relax his hands, but can’t figure out which one it is. He lets both arms go slack.

Something heavy is slid across the floor and Juno guesses Nureyev is barring the door. They’ve found refuge in what looks like a tiny newsagent, and Juno hopes it won’t open before they have a chance to leave. The screens and streams are dead and black, empty for the night.

Then the feeling of Nureyev settling to sit beside him. Juno tilts his head, looking up, and sees … Peter Nureyev.

Something about that chase has brought out Peter Nureyev. Not one of his aliases, not one of his many personas, but a slender man with flushed cheeks, the slightest muss of a curl to his hair, a split lip and a concerned wrinkle between his eyebrows. He leans down, as if examining Juno’s face.

Hand shaking, Juno raises a clumsy hand to Nureyev’s cheek and brushes a thumb just below a new split lip, dusting off the tiniest fleck of asphalt from rolling out of the car.

Idly, he realises Nureyev has said something. Juno’s ears feel stuffed with cotton wool.

“What?” he asks, stupidly.

With a gentle touch, Nureyev takes Juno’s hand away from his cheek and holds it in his lap. “I said, detective, did you injure yourself? Tumbling out of a moving vehicle like that can be exhilarating, or it can leave you with more than a couple of cracked ribs.”

Juno snorts. “I wouldn’t have a clue. Everything hurts in the wrong spots.”

Nureyev settles his back against the wall. He’s still holding Juno’s hand, and Juno is terrified if he mentions it he’ll lose the contact.

What is wrong with him? He mentally berates himself. _Pull yourself together, Steel_. Why does that thought sound like Sasha Wire?

They sit. The silence is nice.

“You seemed to find it exhilarating,” Juno says, and doesn’t know why he does. He turns his head, still lying flat on his back where he collapsed, to look at Nureyev.

The hint of a sharp smile. “You caught me, detective. Running from law enforcement is my idea of a hobby, really. And I do enjoy my hobbies. There’s something very satisfying about being very, very good at them.”

 

__________

 

The silence returns, and it stays longer than it has in a long time. It’s more than a quarter of an hour before Juno realises he can feel what Nureyev is doing; running his fingers over the palm of Juno’s left hand, feeling every crease and scar in the skin.

He turns his head again. That _is_ his left hand. Experimentally, he twitches his fingers.

Nureyev stops. “Can you feel that, Juno?”

Their gazes lock. Juno opens his mouth to say something, but nothing comes out. His mouth is dry and his brain is empty. Where the hell did words go, all those words he wanted to save and say at a time like this?

Deftly, Nureyev draws a finger along Juno’s forearm. Involuntarily, he shivers. The sensation is so frustratingly _gentle_ , and he wants Nureyev to dig his nails into his skin, to get the sharp spikes of sensation that he wants to much more than this. He wants anything but this.

“Can you feel that?”

“You make me feel a lot, Peter.”

The words hang between them, and neither looks away. Juno’s forgotten to breathe.

Nureyev’s hands wander up Juno’s bicep, then down, to the point where, a few hours before, there had been cracked ribs. He circles the spot slowly with his fingertips. “And there?”

He’s not proud of it, but Juno is the one who breaks it off first. He clears his throat, taking his hand from Nureyev’s lap and wiggling his fingers experimentally. They tingle, as if they’d fallen asleep and he’s waking them up with movement.

“I”m fine,” he says. “Just give me a moment.”

Nureyev checks his watch. “Twenty-four minutes. Just in time.”

Juno sits up, and the tingles of nerves waking up spreads through his toes. He grimaces, and rolls his neck. “I feel like death.”

“It’s a good thing you don’t look like it.” Nureyev stands, adjusting his skirt. It has a rip, presumably from jumping out of the van, and it’s dusted with gravel. He adjusts his appearance and Juno can’t help but watch. Hefting the refinery in one hand, Nureyev offers Juno his other hand. “We have quite a ways to go still.”


	2. my work is never through

They stop for breakfast before continuing their escape. Juno appreciates it, because he’s pretty sure his body has burnt through every excess calorie it had, trying to heal his ribs.

Nureyev steers him towards the gaudiest-looking hotel he can find, and  promptly kicks up a fuss about two lost jackets with the sleepy concierge, who panics, and gives them their pick of the cloakroom. Nureyev sweeps away with a new suit jacket embroidered with metallic threads, and wheedles a trench coat with a rather avant-garde silhouette out of the hapless hotel employee for good measure. Juno’s thankful for something to conceal his rumpled appearance, and they use the creds in the pockets for a hasty breakfast at a tiny café.

They sit inside, but Nureyev’s eyes don’t leave the street. Juno resists the urge to try and tempt him into conversation. He won’t let Nureyev have the satisfaction.

Idly, he rubs circles in his left palm with his right thumb, watching his coffee get cold and watching the way Nureyev’s eyes flicker over the morning commuters in the artificial dawn light.

It’s an abrupt jerk out of his reverie when Nureyev grabs his wrist and points. “The purple one,” he whispers. "They left it unlocked."

Juno can see the one he means, and he groans under his breath. “ _Purple_ , really?”

“Beggars can’t be choosers,” Nureyev says primly, and tosses back the rest of his coffee. Arranging his cutlery neatly atop an empty plate, he flashes a grin, but Juno can feel the exhaustion there and see it in the bruised circles under his eyes. Nureyev offers him a hand to help him up. Juno tells himself it's in case the sedative's effects haven't entirely worn off, but he's been able to walk steady for some time now. “Shall we, detective?”

 

__________

 

It’s never a good idea to park an unsecured vehicle in any city, but Juno is always amazed by what people think they can get away with. In this case, Juno and Nureyev get away with a very comfortable ride. It’s purple, sure. But comfy.

Two of their several fake IDs are checked at the tunnel checkpoint, and they’re back on track, zipping through the eerily lit tunnels toward Ares. The nav-comms beeps quietly every couple of minutes, keeping them on track. For a straight stretch, like these tunnels, even a simpler car can drive itself.

“Three more hours,” Nureyev says, checking the comms unit. “And we’ll enter the Ares dome. I suggest you make yourself comfortable.”

“As long as you don’t get us into another chase.”

Juno tries to make the comment biting, but Nureyev laughs out loud. “A job is never complete without a good old-fashioned chase, Juno. A successful theft and a successful escape, they’re the greatest thrills there are.”

“As a PI, not sure I agree.”

“Being a PI isn’t that different from being a thief.”

“Fairly sure they’re opposites, Nureyev.”

The reply he gets is laughter, sharp and mocking. Juno bristles, shifting in the passenger’s seat with an indignant huff.

“I’m supposed to find thieves,” he snaps back.

“You _were_ supposed to,” Nureyev corrects. “Do you really think we’re opposites, Juno?”

Juno can’t bring himself to look, so he watches the clouds of Venus through the tunnel’s arched walls. He realises how quiet it is out here; without traffic, the only sound is the muted hum of the purple monstrosity Nureyev stole.

There’s that Cheshire Cat grin in Nureyev’s voice. “Do you really think we’re so different?”

Juno _hates_ that teasing tone right now.

“What makes you think we’re so similar?” he says instead, and he knows it’s a cheap shot. A transparent one, at that.

A sharp-toothed smile. “We both want something, Juno. It’s as simple as that; we want something much bigger and better and more brilliant than ourselves and, quite possibly, we’ll die trying to make it a reality.”

“Comforting.”

“Yes, I think it is. _”_ Nureyev settles back. “We know there’s something better out there, a galaxy better than this one. And we might stray a little, take jobs to pay the bills here and there, but we’re still trying to find that better galaxy through the things we do.”

“It’s a pretty thought, Nureyev.” The words trip across his tongue before he knows what he’s saying. Old habits die hard. Though it comes out biting, he means it. It _is_ a pretty thought. A beautiful one.

“You’re not as cynical as you act, Juno.”

“Hmph.”

“The silent treatment? Don’t you think we’re past that?”

“I haven’t got the first clue what _we_ are.”

“What do you expect, detective? This is what happens when you turn a commitment into a one-night stand.”

Juno puts his head in his hands, nails digging into his temples until he can feel the pounding of his pulse in every inch of his skin. “I told you. I’m sorry.” He breathes, evenly and deep, even though all he wants to do is cry. It’s just the stress of this job, he tells himself, the stress of the day he’s had and the stress his body’s been through.

“I know.”

The admission is given casually, as flatly as Nureyev might have commented on the lack of weather, and it takes a few seconds for the words to sink into Juno’s head. When they do, he feels that pounding in his head, the inevitable pressure he’s been trying to keep bottled, trying to keep himself contained, for Nureyev’s sake, eases. He rubs his forehead and looks up.

Nureyev is looking at him from the driver’s seat. Juno’s breath catches. They stare at each other for long enough that Juno realises he’s forgotten how to breathe.

“You haven’t changed a bit, Juno,” Nureyev says, his half-moon of a smile softening, “but in some ways you’re an entirely new lady. We’ve always made a good team, I stand by that. But if I had the choice, I would take this Juno Steel sitting beside me now over any Juno Steel, private investigator, from two years ago. He knows a little more about what his worth is. It’s good that you can finally see it.”

Juno knows he’s crying. The tears run down his nose and he sniffs them away as he nods wordlessly.

Nureyev leans in his seat, propping his elbow up on the compartment between them. “So, detective; what are we?”

“What do you want to be?” No, that’s too forward. He curses to himself, and tries to right the tracks of the conversation. “What would you be okay with — with being?”

“Oh, Juno.” Nureyev’s eyes trace his face, and Juno feels pinned in place by the way he’s being searched. Intimately. “I made you a promise, two years ago.”

“You — what?”

“About all the things we would see. The places we would go. The escape we would have.”

“I remember.”

“I can’t give you that right now. I can, one day. But not today. There are too many strings tangled up in what we’re trying to do, too many knots and too many people.”

“I know.”

Nureyev spreads his hands. “Then there’s the answer, Juno. I can’t give you what you want. We can likely proceed —”

“No.”

“Hm?”

“No!” Suddenly, Juno lets out a bark of a laugh, but this time it’s genuine. For once. He wants to grab Nureyev by the shoulders and shake some sense into him. “Are you kidding? Peter, that’s not what I wanted. I told you I wanted to leave. With you.”

“Detective. I regret the way things ended, and I know you’ve explained your ambitions weren’t what I assumed, but I can’t promise those adventures. My task is with Buddy’s crew right now. And I see my jobs through to the end.”

“I wanted to leave. _With you_. Don’t you get it?” Juno’s hand is on Nureyev’s, and he doesn’t remember moving it. He’s staring at the other man with a desperation he’s never been so ravenous to have understood, a need that’s gnawing at him. This is a hope, and he doesn’t want it crushed. “I wanted to leave because you didn’t want to stay. But I wanted it to be with you. And now? I — I still want that. This. Whatever. Whatever it is, I want it _with you_.”

Peter Nureyev is … stunned? It’s the most foreign sight Juno could picture, shock and confusion flickering over the thief’s face. That face that had told a dozen lies today alone, a face that masked itself as easily as drawing curtains.

“Well,” is all he says.

“I’m not here for the adventures,” Juno tells him, “or sparkling galaxies, or all that — stuff. I’m here because I want to do something and Buddy and Vespa and Jet are the best way I know right now. And now that you’re here too, I want another chance. With you. With Peter Nureyev. If he’ll have me. I don’t want a — a beautiful new future. I want to make something bigger and better. Now. I want this present, and I want it with you.”

Nureyev chuckles. Does his voice crack? Juno isn’t sure. “Juno, have I told you that I missed you?”

 

__________

 

They talk. It’s … nice. It’s simple. For once, this is a conversation that is straightforward.

Nureyev runs his thumb over the calluses of Juno’s knuckles while he stares off into the distance, recounting the story of a heist from nine months ago, from a corrupt mining CEO on the innermost fringe of the Outer Rim. He pauses, to let Juno guess or deduce clues, figuring out the process before Nureyev tells him. He gets it correct about two-thirds of the time, and Nureyev’s smile is equally bright when he’s right as when he’s wrong.

Juno trades with stories about Rita, and he can’t erase the nostalgia in his voice. He rants about Mick for a little while, but that’s a painful thought, since he left without saying a goodbye, so he returns to Rita. She’s a safe — and hilarious — topic. He talks about some of their weirder cases, describing the cat bomb (“I have to admit, that _is_ a new one,” Nureyev remarks. “Designer pets are … unsettling.”), and some of the wilder stakeouts he’s been on that have gone horribly wrong.

They pass the time with little bouts of silence too. There’s a tension there, but Juno is beginning to notice the differences between these moments and moments he’d stumbled into earlier; these are tensions Nureyev doesn’t try and intensify with a coy glance or a suggestive slip of the shoulder. These are silences Nureyev lets sit, breaking skin contactto avoid making them something else. These are comfortable tensions, borne of something fragile and new.

Juno is willing to wait. He doesn’t want to rush. And he has no reason to, does he? They’re going to try this.

He’s trying to be better, at a lot of things. And sometimes, dammit, it hurts like all hell but he has something to prove; that there’s something bigger and better out there, and they’re going to get to it.


	3. gave me something more than scars

Buddy is the angriest Juno has ever heard her. The fact that she expresses it without so much as lifting the volume of her voice even a fraction makes it all the more terrifying.

_“You are aware it’s been more than twelve hours since I’ve heard from you both, Alaric, Juno?”_

Juno swallows, and Nureyev shrugs, that universal _go ahead_ motion.

“We — uh, had a tail —”

_“Yes, I heard, darling. In fact, if I remember correctly, that was the last thing I heard. Before your vehicle eventually dropped off the map and you seemed to disappear into thin air.”_

In the background, Jet’s voice is static-filled and flat. _“Which is ill-advised on Venus, Juno. The atmosphere is too thick to support carbon-based life.”_

Gut clenching, Juno mutters out a strangled, “I know” between tight teeth.

 _“I have neither the time nor patience for apologies. We’ll discuss this later.”_ The way she says it is ominously chilling. “ _Darlings, make your way to bay 43C, I have someone holding the spot for us.”_

Juno nods. The mental image of Buddy’s glare peering out behind her fire-red hair is so vivid he forgets for a moment she can’t see him. “Uh — yeah. Will do.”

_“And do keep us up to date on whether you’re alive or not until then, hm? I’d hate to make Miss Rita worry.”_

“Oh shit — I’m so — look, Buddy, a lot’s been —”

 _“Save your apologies for her, Juno, it will save you time and breath, and save me precious momentsof my life that I won’t be able to reclaim.”_ Her tone is ice.

“Sorry,” Juno finishes weakly.

_“Juno?”_

He sees Nureyev’s head shake from the corner of his eye, drawing a finger across his throat, every motion screaming _stop NOW_.

“Yeah?” Juno asks Buddy, eyes on Nureyev, who shakes his head.

_“Do you ever actually attempt to listen to instructions or constructive feedback, or is it simply useless unless it is physically pounded into your thick skull?”_

“You know, my skull is pretty dense. Lots of good protection, on account of all the people trying to pound —”

 _“Be ready in ten, darlings,”_ Buddy’s voice demands, and her voice cuts off abruptly.

Juno rubs his forehead. “Poor Rita.”

“Well, my thick-skulled detective,” Nureyev says, unfolding his tall frame from the car and leaving the keys in the ignition, “we’d best be on our way, before a second tardiness reminds Mrs Aurinko that I also had a hand in all of this.”

 

__________

 

The de-brief — and ensuing dressing-down — consumes hours of their afternoon, and by the time they’re done, the refinery is stored safely, every knob and dial checked meticulously. The sight of it was almost enough to melt Buddy’s anger at their radio silence. Almost.

After hours of poring over amended blueprints, touched-up plans, lessons learned, reminders of what went wrong and why, Juno is swaying on his feet. He drags himself to the showers and can’t stay standing. He sits on the floor, head tilted back and resting against the stall wall as he lets hot water pound over him.

His torso has another mark added; a deep purple stripe atop his ribs, at the site of the bone-knitting injection. It will fade in a few years, but for now it’s another badge and another story to add to all his others.

Washing his face is a feat of will. Brushing his teeth is too much right now, so he swigs some mouthwash and collapses into his bunk, stripped down to clean skin and boxers in the cool afternoon light of the ship’s hallways.

 

__________

 

Recovery is a slow process. They spend two days docked on Luna, Earth’s moon, picking up supplies and distributing some of the more interesting files that Vespa and Rita were able to hack from the CVFA, and they spend both of those nights taking some time away from the ship.

Juno hardly sees Vespa and Buddy; they’re inseparable to the point that it’s unclear if they ever cast two shadows, and they are busy doing whatever it takes to keep a ship like theirs financed. Juno doesn’t ask, because that isn’t his job.

Jet stays aboard the _Rover_ , but he ventures out most days with Rita. Juno tags along the first morning, but half an hour is all it takes for him to realise that he's a dead weight. Jet is interested in acquiring tech, Rita is wide-eyed and inquisitive beside him, and Juno doesn't care as much about hardware or software or kinda-sorta-squishy-ware or whatever as either of them. He disappears into the streets, looking first for places to kill time, then looking for the best spots for discount liquor as the afternoon wears on.

The first night they spend in a hotel. Buddy and Vespa have rooms on the floor below, and Nureyev’s is one above. Their rooms have a fantastic view of the landfills of Luna, but Juno doesn’t mind the less-than-stellar setting, because here there’s actually space to swing a cat (with or without a bomb in it). The mattresses have space to roll over, and the showers have space to turn around.

Juno is unlocking his door, a bottle of whiskey in hand, when he feels someone watching him. He rests a hand on the blaster beneath his coat, even though that’s an empty comfort. He hasn’t mastered shooting with one eye yet.

“Looks like you have some plans for the evening,” comes Nureyev’s purr. “Mind if I … join you?”

Juno turns to see him there; all six feet leaning against the bannister, hands tucked into pockets, wearing that ridiculously metallic jacket from the cloakroom that he stole.

There’s a smirk playing on his lips and Juno’s hand slips on the key.

“I — you —” It takes a few seconds for Juno to give up on words, and he holds the door open mutely.He doesn’t hear Nureyev’s thanks.

Two glasses poured; two awkward seats, one sitting on the bed with shoes still on, the other perched atop the bedside table. Glasses clink and Nureyev grimaces after the first sip. “How can you drink this?”

Juno shrugs and tips the rest of his glass back. “Drinking on a budget is efficient, not fun.”

Nureyev’s curled lip doesn’t disappear. He sips more slowly.

“You’re not going to the black market with Jet this evening?” Juno asks, swirling the ice cubes in the already-empty cup.

“Buddy has sourced most of my requested items already,” says Nureyev. “Are you?”

Juno points to the bottle in response. “Rita is though.”

“They seem to get along well.”

“Jet’s the only one who listens without interrupting her.”

“A solid friendship then.”

“I’d say so.”

Nureyev sips the whiskey again, and Juno laughs at the shudder that passes through the taller man. He reaches out for the glass and takes it from Nureyev’s hands, ignoring his protests. “This stuff is shit, there’s no need to keep drinking it.”

“You are,” Nureyev points out.

Juno looks down at Nureyev’s glass in his hand, still three-quarters full, and puts it to the side. “I think one will do me.”

“Why’s that, detective? Have alternative plans for this evening?”

There’s something leading about the question. Maybe it’s the unfinished tone, or the quirk of his eyebrow. Maybe it’s the whiskey going to his head. Maybe it’s the warmth of the room, the blankets and sheets he can feel under him.

All Juno does is shrug. “I just want to see what happens next. And, you know, be sober for it.”

Nureyev leans in, one hand braced against the headboard. “I’d love to see what happens next.”

It feels like every nerve in Juno’s body is on fire. He opens his mouth, trying to find some _words_ that will make _sense_ and say _something_ but his eye is caught by that mouth and then his collar is caught by that hand.

“Come here, Juno.”

Peter Nureyev pulls Juno Steel in close and tight by the collar of his shirt, one hand still tight against the headboard, supporting a little of both of their weight.

Nureyev’s lips are soft. His hands are firm. From this distance, his skin is flushed.

Juno tumbles into it, and suddenly this kiss goes from contact to all-consuming. There isn’t a future and the past is there but it is nothing more than a backdrop to this beautiful, infinite now, lasting too long and not long enough all at once.

Nureyev pulls away, eyes open, releasing Juno’s collar. “I —”

Juno is the one who grabs him this time, and pulls Nureyev’s mouth back down to his with a murmured “ _please”_ brushing against Nureyev’s lips before they lock together again.

They tumble onto the bed eventually, and there are things said that can’t be expressed in words or sentences. Gentle touches that say a thousand words; rough ones that say a thousand more. They pour into each other, exploring the way their edges have changed since the last and only other time they’ve been here, in a quiet moment in each other’s arms.

And when they wake, they wake up together. Quite honestly, that’s the best _now_ Juno Steel can imagine.

**Author's Note:**

> Righty-o kiddos, this is the last instalment in this series! Thank you everyone who read these, I love all your feedback and comments from the bottom of my heart. You can find me on tumblr @mistah-aluminium. Feel free to comment any feedback!
> 
> Also, I do love writing myself some gay representation because I need it, but I'd be lying if the fact that both of them have the same pronouns doesn't mess with keeping everything straight (ha). So I hope there weren't too many confusing moments for y'all.
> 
> Yes, I do think I kinda ran out of steam on this one, but that's okay, it's done, and now we all get to settle in and wait for S3 and see how things actually play out. I'm stoked!


End file.
